


The Mortal Instruments/ Infernal Devices Short stories

by TheLondonInstitute (fallingfromresolution)



Category: Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare, Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 02:43:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/831792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingfromresolution/pseuds/TheLondonInstitute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are just the result of many boring lessons and strange inspirations involving Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments and Infernal Devices Series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Un-Will-ing raincloud

What if we separated Wessa? We could just evaporate Will and leave Tessa in the pertri dish. We could burn Will and he’d rise up into heaven in all his angelic glory and Tessa will cry, her tears also evaporate with Will. After a while of brooding on a grey cloud the colour of Tessa’s eyes, he decides to return to the land, coming down in his entire fiery – or should we say…watery - wrath. 


	2. Life In the Afterlife

Simon walked outside…his bedroom, because he needed the bathroom. Of course, if he really did go outside he’d burn into a fiery hell, in agony, probably screaming. So no, he didn’t go outside anymore. Not since he became stupidly attractive, allergic to the sun and gone on a strict diet of blood. Yes, blood. It repulsed him enough and it was worse now that the bottles had been in the back of his closet for over three days now. They smelt real bad. Lucky he didn’t have guests often. And he had even fewer guests now that he was ‘sick’. He had mysteriously come down with the flu or something (if you call being bitten by half a dozen vampires a flu) Anyway, Simon had been in bed for the past two weeks, studiously avoiding his mother and her ministrations. It was a make-shift plan to say the least. She was his mother after all; he couldn’t hide in his room forever with the shutters closed and the curtains pulled across. But how could he tell his mother he had died and risen again with the help of four Nephilim, (“They’re demon hunters, mum.” He would add) and a megalomaniac vampire who looked fifteen but has really been dead for a while. Yes, he thought, that would be an interesting conversation. So, he made his way to the bathroom, wondering at his new completely indoor and semi-nocturnal life. As he pushed the door open, though, he heard his mother call from the kitchen, asking if it was him.  
“Yep, it’s me!” he shouted.  
Really mum, he thought, who else would it be?  
“Are you okay?” she called back.  
“Fine,” agitated now. He really had to use the bathroom now.  
He waited for her to shout something back. Nothing. He shrugged and pushed open the door.  
“Simon!”  
“What?!”  
She paused.  
“I love you,” she called.  
“Yep, love you too,” he rushed and slammed the door shut.

He rushed out of the bathroom again when he heard his phone ringing. He began a desperate search for it under piles of rubbish and sheets of music.  
“Success!” he shouted, and held the phone in the air.  
He quickly pushed the answer button.  
“Hey, Clary,” he said without checking the caller ID.  
“It’s not Clary, Bloodsucker,” came a guy’s voice.  
Simon held the phone away from himself in surprise. He put it back to his ear tentatively.  
“Jace? What the hell?”  
“Charming as always, I see. Hello to you too,” said Jace.  
“Why the hell did you call?” Asked Simon, confused.  
“I don’t know, maybe because you’re my friend,” he laughed. “Sorry, no I can’t lie to you Vampirebutt.”  
“Thanks,” said Simon, his words dripped sarcasm.  
Before it was Mundane and now it was Vampirebutt? Really grown up, Simon thought. Trust Jace to come up with something like that.  
“No really. How are you? How’s life in the afterlife? Treating you well?”  
“Oh yes, living in darkness really suits me. Black really flatters my figure.”  
“Really, again with the sarcasm? It is quite unbecoming on you,” Jace continued to jab.  
Simon stopped answering. Apparently being a vampire didn’t sharpen your wits against Jace.  
“Oh, don’t be grumpy. Who else will I talk to?” He waited.  
Simon gave in.  
“Did you call me just to flaunt your tan and day at a sunny beach in my face or what?”  
“Oh no, never,” said Jace in mock offence. “I just wanted to talk about all things deep and meaningful. You know; pollution, global warming, Isabelle’s cooking, poverty, your dress sense…” He listed.  
“What’s wrong with my dress sense? Oh, never mind. I’m going to hang up now and please…please don’t call me again. No offence, by the way,” he added.  
Jace hung up before Simon had finished though. Only then did Simon wonder how he had his number.


	3. Simon Lewis and the Deathly Stew

“I swear you’re trying to kill me,” groaned Jace through gritted teeth.  
“Are you insulting my cooking?” asked Isabelle, deadly serious.  
“No I’m just saying I’d take my chances jumping off a cliff, but not so much with…that,” said Jace eyeing the lumpy brown liquid bubbling in a large silver pot.   
“What even is that?” he asked, almost reluctant to know the answer.  
“It’s beef stroganoff,” Isabelle cried, a genuinely hurt expression lining her face.  
“Right,” said Jace, swallowing down his lunch. “I’m not eating it.”  
“Why not?!” she paused. “Actually, you don’t deserve my cooking. But just know you’re missing out big-time.”  
“Fine with me,” said Jace, turning and walking out of the kitchen, hiding the smile of victory and relief.  
From the kitchen he could still hear Isabelle swearing and muttering to herself. He hastened his pace just in case she came back for some reason. Around the corner though, Jace ran into a lanky figure leaning against the wall.   
“Mundane. What are you doing here?” said Jace dusting off invisible dust.  
“I’m here with Clary,” Simon’s tone was confident but his body language showed he wasn’t sure if he should be there. Jace frowned.   
“Isabelle’s in the kitchen, cooking some sort of nuclear bomb, if that’s who you’re looking for,” said Jace smugly.  
“Who says I’m looking for anyone?” said Simon, tensing visibly.   
“Your general body language says you don’t want to be seen, but waiting for someone; hoping, probably to bump into them casually. And by your seemingly strategic positioning in this particular hallway, I’d say you are waiting for someone to come out of the kitchen,” Jace rambled on. “But why would you be waiting for me? A confession perhaps? Declarations of love always amuse me.”  
“No!” started Simon.  
“Because if that is the case, I’m afraid I don’t share your thoughts,” Jace interrupted.   
“Honourable as always, but no. Just no,” Simon pushed past Jace with an inward shudder and stalked off towards the kitchen.   
“Don’t eat anything!” Jace shouted after him, grinning.

The smell of something horrid wafted from the kitchen. Simon wrinkled his nose, smelling the queer combination of a barbeque and a science lab. As he drew nearer he could hear the indistinct mumble of Isabelle swearing. Simon gulped down his fear and wondered, not for the first time, why he was doing this again. He got the feeling that Isabelle had the ability to seriously harm him if she thought he stepped out of line. As he entered the kitchen he eyed her boots warily, imagining the thin heel skewering him mercilessly.   
“Hi Isabelle,” he said cautiously.   
She didn’t look around, still unaware of Simon’s presence.  
“Hi?” he repeated louder.  
This time she turned, spoon, dripping a greyish substance, in hand and a look of subtle annoyance on her face.  
“What do you want Mundie?” her calm features didn’t reach her tongue.  
“Uh, I just…” Simon stuttered, as he always did when speaking to Isabelle. It was as if she had actually taken his tongue and ripped it straight out of his mouth.   
“Spit it out,” said Isabelle impatiently.  
“I uh, just smelt something…delicious!” he smiled proud that his tongue had not betrayed him.   
“Okay,” Isabelle laughed, “maybe you would like to sample some for me then? Jace made such a fuss, probably scared to eat his vegetables.”  
“Yeah!” laughed Simon, stopping abruptly realising Isabelle wasn’t laughing too. The side of her mouth quirked at the edge. Instead of feeling reassured, Simon felt like he was missing some kind of joke that would only be momentously funny if he knew what it was.   
“What is it…that?” he pointed to the pot of something.  
“It’s beef stroganoff,” she answered quickly as if he was stupid not to know. Simon didn’t see how that grey stuff in the pot could even pass as food, but he kept his mouth shut, reasoning that it could still taste good, even if it looked like lumpy concrete. Maybe it was like melted chocolate. It didn’t look like the wonderful sculpture of confectionary it was at the start, but it still tasted delicious, licking it off the wrapper. Yeah, probably the same kind of thing.   
“Great! My favourite!” his voice went high at the end, making Isabelle snicker and Simon blush.   
“Excellent,” she smiled. “As always your feedback will be greatly appreciated.”  
She turned back to the stove, ladling the lumpy slush into a large bowl. Simon held back his grimace with a forced smile. As hard as he tried though, he couldn’t help but feel as if Isabelle was just laughing at him. She was gorgeous, he knew, but a nagging in the back of his mind told him she was evil or dangerous or just seductively deranged. Her long, midnight hair shone, and hung down past her shoulders where it had escaped a messy ponytail. Black eyes penetrated Simon, narrowing after several long moments of staring on Simon’s part.   
“You’re drooling,” Isabelle said flatly.  
Simon snapped his mouth shut and consciously made an effort not to stare too hard.   
“I guess it’s just the soup…”  
“Stroganoff,” Isabelle cut him off and handed him the bowl.  
“Smells delicious,” he said numbly, looking into the bubbling liquid.  
“I know.”  
Simon looked away awkwardly. A blank feeling washed over him. At last her words had penetrated the thin reverie of adoration blanketing Simon. He felt a hollow sadness in his chest. For a moment Isabelle had filled the Clary-shaped hole inside him. He hated Jace for taking her away from him, and for taking Clary away from herself. She needed to find her mom, not chase after some bizarre notion that staying with these people would somehow find a rational solution to the problem. He felt anger surge in his blood, everything gone wrong surfacing in that moment. Isabelle saw Simon tense and for a flicker of a second felt some sympathy, if not empathy, for the mundane.   
“Here,” she said taking the bowl from Simon’s hands. “I ordered Chinese. You don’t have to eat that,” she said as she flung the stroganoff, and the bowl with it, into the bin with a precision that made Simon happy but mostly envious.   
“I would have eaten it, you know,” Simon protested weakly.  
“I do know,” she smiled. “But I wasn’t in the mood for cleaning up mundane spew.”  
Simon grimaced, trying to conceal his relief.  
“But it couldn’t have been that bad,” Simon laughed. “Could it?”  
He glanced dubiously at the pot on the stove, now starting to bubble over with a stench that flooded kitchen in a greenish tinge.  
“Dammit!” shouted Isabelle, spotting the waterfall of grey sludge. She rushed to the stove muttering something unintelligible, something in another language, Simon guessed.   
At that moment, Church the cat sauntered in, tail held high. At the smell of Isabelle’s cooking and the ruckus surrounding it, his fur bristled and his ears flattened as he took his leave quickly with the sound of skittering claws on tiles.   
Now the sludge had cooled and ceased its desperate attempt at escaping the pot, Isabelle leant on the counter looking flushed.   
“They tell me not to cook,” she started, until Simon cut in.  
“Maybe they…” he stopped mid-sentence, seeing the expectant frown on Isabelle’s face.   
The look said: No tell me. Keep going. I want to know what you think. But you should know we’re in a kitchen where an abundance of sharp utensils reside.  
Isabelle shook her head. “A few minor accidents can’t be held against me. No one’s ever been hurt…fatally.”  
“What does that mean?” Simon asked, concerned.  
“Just a few cases of food poisoning is all, they all recovered within a week or so.”  
“How many were there?”  
“Oh I don’t know! I still say it was those crisps that werewolf brought.”  
“What?”   
“Except for that faery,” Isabelle continued, oblivious to Simon’s growing concern, showing blatantly on his face. “His hair never did grow back,” she said this as an afterthought, almost smiling, Simon thought, as if remembering a fond memory of a happy vacation or family reunion.  
Despite this, Simon sat obediently, listening to the lengthy explanation of why the faery’s hair loss could not be held on her account. He gazed at her. Thought to himself, how beautiful she was, how strong and confident. But the voice in his head also reminded him she wasn’t Clary. At this thought, Simon’s heart was squeezed painfully by the hand of longing and disappointment. He had felt so close to telling her. Saying to her what he had rehearsed at home and in his head. Playing out the conversation, where he said “I love you, Clary,” and she would say “I love you too, Simon.”


	4. Soft Furnishings

Jace was like a cold, hard room. Remote, and made of hard metals, tiles and glass. Everything that reflected everything else. No lavish furniture decorated the desolate space, nothing to absorb. So if the pain he was so arduously trying to keep out, did by some chance (or some fiery red-head) manage to chip away at the outer shell of his room and break in, he would not be able to keep it from ricocheting dangerously off the white, unmarked walls. The pain would stay there until it managed to break out again, which was a hard feat. It was as hard as it was to break in as it was to break out. Jace made sure of that. He both prided and hated himself for his exceptional ability to hold everything inside. His room was air tight and inhospitable, making enduring all he could manage. Only once had the room been opened up by anything other than force. Her name of course was Clary Fray, and she came in like a raging sea or a furious, lost tornado. He could easily have blamed her angrily, traipsing danger and disturbance into his life. But instead, she had melted a small wall of Jace’s room and the worst part was, he had let her. He had allowed her to pull down a wall, destroying what had taken so long to build. Everything had been destroyed. Something so hard and unforgiving shown in the sun as brittle and small. The gaping hole in Jace’s room allowed bad things to crawl in and gather, like old enemies and memories better left forgotten. Clary had also brought her share of happiness, only this meant the dust was allowed to gather on the soft seats and curtains. With her had come the crawling out of his room and into the world again. Too bright was the sun that he scowled for a time and never smiled sincerely. He built his room again slowly, but only for show, only for those who would not see him for who he was. But in time, he would discover that it was just as brittle as the last, and the shards would shatter to hurt them all.


End file.
